


Second Sin

by Cotesgoat



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, First fic I’m a lil nervous, Voyeurism, a little bit of wanking just for fun, shameful orgasm, theres a brief mention of underage but its all gucci
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cotesgoat/pseuds/Cotesgoat
Summary: "Christine, between tears, clung to the hope that his love for her would allow for this one innocent, second sin- the sin of seeing another."Voyeurism one shot; E/C
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Second Sin

_H_ e had seen her before in such a state- her warm, deliciously pink skin hiding salaciously beneath a thin scrap of transparent nightgown. Oh, but she was just a child then, barely seventeen, but that did not stop him, did not stop his wicked and lust-filled mind from thinking of her in his indecent, crude way.

She was just a child then, he reminded himself, but the thought had not stopped him from abandoning her mid-lesson to stow away to his fifth cellar home, panting in ecstatic grief as he pleasured himself to the image of her. He had imagined that they were her hands upon his chest, upon his thighs, and her lithe fingers stroking and pulling at his cock until it bled his foul, white seed. But his hands were the ones that bore the guilt and shame, his disgusting, too long fingers that had groped the almighty length between his thighs, and the poor scrap of a chorus girl would never know of any of it.

And now, nearly three years later, he stood before the mirror again, watching as she unknowingly prepared herself for him.

She had already let her hair down for the night, and was in the process of brushing her relentless curls with a wide, ivory-toothed, silver comb, the same one from the three-pieced set he had purchased for her for her last birthday several weeks ago. For a moment, he allowed himself to reminisce at her delighted joy in finding the wrapped parcel and at the way her greedy hands ripped open the wrapping. She had held the brushes to her chest, the very chest he now ogled, and had thanked him from her side of the mirror. Later that night, when he came to check in on her sleep, he found a handmade card at the base of the mirror, thanking him again for the expensive gift.

Erik held a hand to the back of the glass and leaned just slightly, causing a purposeful creak to sound throughout the room. His beloved girl gasped then, the comb falling from her fingertips and clattering to the floor in her shock. The mirror had not yet opened, and yet the phantom's eyes were on her. She could feel his fervid gaze as if it were hot wax pooling on her skin, and she shivered from the melting burn.

"Erik...?" her voice came in a timid, hesitant whisper, for she knew already that his presence tonight would not be a pleasant encounter.

She pulled her dressing gown more tightly around herself in a shy display of false modesty, which did not go unnoticed to the secret voyeur watching in. But what he had already seen had undone him, and a flimsy scrap of pale lace would do nothing to counter the spying sin he had already committed.

"Erik, if it is you, show yourself." She built up her confidence then, and on her command, he at last entered the room.

He came to a pause and now stood in his full, corporeal form just a step away from her. She only need to kick out her leg, and she'd have touched him, but she dare not move. Instead, she toyed with the pink ribbons on her dressing gown while awkwardly avoiding meeting his eye. She had done wrong tonight, she knew, and he was here to punish her for her frivolous and selfish actions. His stare bore into her, but she could not think of an answer to give him.

 _"Well?"_ He asked, and she gulped, trying to swallow the stiff choking sob that was already forming within her throat. "Have you nothing to say to me?" In truth, she had much to say, but she simply could not think of the right words to tell him.

"Erik, please." She begged, worrying the silken ribbon between her thumb and forefinger. "I did not think he would react this way."

His sigh was one of anger, one of dissatisfaction; she winced in pain when she heard it.

She had gone to see Raoul de Chagny two nights ago and it had infuriated her Maestro when he found out that she had not been able to get rid of the annoying brat. Instead, the boy offered a proposal, of all things, and she had foolishly accepted! Erik hadn't spoken to her ever since.

But the fact of the matter was that she had met with the boy on the roof of the Opera Populaire to end their engagement. Christine told him that she was married to music and simply did not have time for their rooftop dalliances and their one-sided engagement. It was what Erik had told her to do, but Raoul did not believe her, and so she felt guilty all the same.

"That boy still longs for you. He waits for you at the stage door each night since. He was there again tonight. With roses!"

Christine finally looked up at her Maestro, though she could not meet his burning, possessive eyes. "I did not ask him to come. I asked him to leave."

"And yet you still wear his ring on your finger! Your finger which should be mine!" Christine looked down at her fourth finger with shame, then tried to hide her hand in the layers of lace on pink negligee. She had not yet removed Raoul's diamond engagement ring. How could she possibly when he was destined to show up again at the door to her private room? At her rehearsals?

Erik stared down at her coldly, and her skin prickled upwards in pink bumps of gooseflesh. It was hardly decent the way he entered her private dressing room, only to berate her like a lover scorned. She turned her head to the side, looking away from his penetrating gaze.

"I do not love him." Her words cracked in her throat, she felt shame at the way her voice betrayed her.. "But he does love me."

"He is incapable of loving you properly."

"That is not fair of you to say." She moved on the vanity's bench to now face forwards to her dressing table and sat straight up, in a semblance of feigned confidence that she was trying desperately to regain. She removed Raoul's ring now, but only momentarily, to massage lavender cream on her hands and wrists. As she completed her routine, Erik's black-gloved hands found purchase upon her shoulders and remained there in a fiercely possessive hold. Christine looked upwards into the vanity's mirror as he did so and she found herself shaking.

Their eyes met and he still wore a scowl. "He does not deserve you as I do."

Christine immediately broke their gaze and opted not to respond. The ring returned to its place in her left hand.

"Do you think that I do not deserve you?" Erik's voice was constructed of fire, but now not entirely from anger. She knew he wanted and desired her, and the thought frightened her. "Do you not think that I desire you just the same as he does? That _I_ am incapable of doing so?"

She did not answer him again, so her Maestro did for her, lifting her hand in his and inspecting the large, diamond bauble on her finger. It shone painfully clear in the lantern lights of her private chamber, and its reflections danced brilliantly against the walls, creating a little ballet of its own glamor, of its own disgustingly lavish shine. Erik snorted at the gross show of possessive wealth, then snatched the thing forcefully from her hand. He tossed it down onto the vanity and it clinked harshly against the glass.

Her immediate response was to cry out in shock, but she refrained from any other outward symptom of surprise, not knowing or anticipating his next move. Watching as the thief disposed of the ring, she bit her tongue and looked straight forward into her mirror.

Had he come here only to harass and torment her for tonight's actions? If that were the case, she prayed silently that he had already released any anger or ill feelings he had towards her or to Raoul. Truthfully, she had yearned for Erik's arrival, but not in such a way. The two hadn't held conversation in two days' time, and though she knew he was angry with her for not fully breaking off her engagement, she did miss him, and longed to resume their music lessons and odd companionship.

With the boy's ring now removed again, Erik placed his hands back on Christine's shoulders, and she tried to stand and pull away. He grasped her arm before she could fully do so, and, as he did this, the white fabric of her dressing gown fell, exposing her milky white shoulder and the beginning edges of the pink lace that covered her chest. When he saw this, he released her at once.

Christine stared up at him with reddened cheeks, and hurried to fix the blunder, but it was too late; she was already mortifyingly scandalized by the seemingly innocent act. She looked up at him, and he was again staring at her, now at the spot where her robe came undone just above her breast. The look he gave her was too discomforting, too strong for her to deny it.

"Why did you come here? Surely not to only scold me again. Was once not enough, Erik?" Christine was keenly aware of his ebbing anger, and it clearly was blossoming into something else. Her pulse thudded violently in her chest with a growing, wanton knowledge that his passionate argument stemmed not from anger, but from a dominating, needy desire. It was his turn to speak, though he only stared at her from where he stood, partly shadowed, at the hidden threshold between mirror and dressing room; his eyes were stilled upon her skin.

Before the maestro could form an answer or act upon the punishment they both knew he was soon to inflict, an annoyance broke their privacy in the form of a rapid, insistent knock to the wooden chamber door.

"Erik, please, it is him- it is Raoul. You must leave or I will be ruined!" Christine cried, now turning back to the little white vanity, and hastily shoving the once-disposed diamond back onto her finger. "Please, Erik, I beg of you!"

While he stood halfway between the dressing room and the secret corridor- like a devil in the purgatory between afterworlds- he would not make the single step downwards into hell. "Send him away," Erik seethed, sending out a stream of wet, sticky spittle out from between his teeth, "Prove your love to me and _send him away!"_

Christine, between tears, clung to the hope that his love for her would allow for this one innocent, second sin- the sin of seeing another. She looked at him so pleadingly through the reflection of the mirror, and begged him once again, "Erik, please. I will turn him away, just as you said! But you must leave. I will be ruined if he sees you here with me." She stood, then, and placed her hands daringly upon his chest - the first touch she willingly gave to him on this night- and pressed backward with all the strength she could handle, trying to urge him away with her touch.

He accepted her promise with the contingency that she would indeed send that damnable, insistent boy away once more, and then he stowed away behind the mirror to observe. The pads of his fingertips brushed across the outline of her shape from behind the mirrors edge, tracing every gentle curve of skin as the girl confronted her ex-lover.

She greeted him in her usual, respectful way- she was always such a kind girl, after all- and asked for him to sit down upon the pink chaise. They needed to talk, she said.

By the time she finished her monologue to the boy, wringing her wrists with each syllable, she gulped, and then glanced at the mirror. She knew her Maestro was still listening in and hoped that her purposeful infliction of pain was acceptable in his eyes, even if it was unkind in her own. "I really am sorry, Raoul-"

"This is all so sudden!" Raoul cried, as teary eyed as she, then grew suddenly doubtful of the true meaning of her suspicious dismissal, "is it _him_ that insisted this? It must be! I know you love me, Christine - _you must!_ "

Despite her efforts against his advances, Raoul pulled her close to his chest in a loving, protective embrace. Christine felt ill at his touch and eyed their reflection in the dressing room's mirror, sensing that, in their private moment, they were not so alone. Her heartbeat thumped uncomfortably in her chest, rising with each, guilt-laden breath into her throat before she nearly had to pull away to prevent the sickly bile from rising up any further. She begged him once more to leave, to flee the Opera and find another, but Raoul was determined to prove their love, and pressed his lips against hers gently, ardently.

From behind the mirror, Erik watched as voyeur to the scene playing out before his eyes. That insolent Tosca and her fool lover, betraying his trust with a kiss once again! He would kill that boy, that idiot, without a second thought, and Christine would be none the wiser. His death and disposal would need to be quick, though the Vicomte deserved nothing of the sort. Erik's hands clenched at his sides as he pictured the act in detail. Erik closed his eyes as he imagined-

Golden eyes flew open wide as he heard a masculine grunt, then flared in shocked horror as he watched the scene play out before him. The Vicomte, now barely in any state of dress, topped his precious girl on the chaise, whose skirts were now flipped up and over her waist. _How the devil long had he been dreaming?!_

They were only now starting the act - yet another of her betrayals committed tonight - but Erik could neither will himself to intrude nor look away. Their privacy be damned along with them!

Raoul was now fully atop her form, pressing his hips against hers and shoving his cock into her folds as both breathed heavily, awkwardly. Both virgins before tonight, neither of the two were unsure, uncertain, and the poor girl cried silent tears into Raoul's embrace, now shamed with the guilt of mortal sin from both God and Angel.

Erik stared into the scene darkly, watching each cry of betrayal, of lust, and slammed his hand against the stone wall in fury - how dare she? That Delilah, that whore! A hundred times over, he had lurked there in the shadows, watching her every move, every moment with the painful agony of desire, and yet she never allowed him to touch, to embrace, to love. And now, he watched as she willingly allowed that fool boy to take what was so rightfully his.

Christine's hands clutched the pillow behind her head and her eyes screwed shut at Raoul's invasion, and hissed when he pushed in again. One of Raoul's hands found hers soon after and pulled it into the tangle of clothing between them and further downward to a small expanse of skin at the base of his belly and kept it there as he willed her to touch. Erik watched, disgusted, but did not look away.

The boy whispered Christine's name and thrust into her again, now turning them into a new position more flatly along the chaise. From this angle, Erik could see more of which he loathed- the boy's manhood sliding further and deeper, coated wet with a milky-pink slickness that the angel began to both desire and despise. His eyes drank up all of which he was not meant to see- the softness of breast, the wetness of cunt, and sighed furiously, his eyes burning.

A shaking, unwilling hand made its way to the front of his trousers and found himself involuntarily hard.

His hand slid against skin as he listened to the sound of his beloved's cries, and he gripped himself, letting his thumb trail up and down a purpled, raised vein that stretched from base to tip, and sighed along with the boy on the opposite side of the mirror.

He began to move his hand up and down the swell of aching skin, wishing the ugly, skeletal digits were softer, smaller, so that he could better envision them as another's, as Christine's. He wrapped his entire palm now against the tip, which already wept in urgent want, and slid the pebble of white across the glass, along the cherub cheeks of his darling.

His eyes were screwed shut after, and he wished for once to have deaf ears, so to not hear any more from his rival or from the jezebel he was bedding. He smacked the tip violently against the vision of Christine's sweet face, punishing her silently for her sins from behind the mirror, and hissed at the contact. The chill against flesh sent a jolt throughout his body.

With a sudden convulsion, he jerked his hips and hand against the glass, shuddering at the feeling. His free fingers pounded out erotic notes that aligned with his movements, echoing an aria lost now to his recess of mind - whether Puccini, Mozart, or something of his own composition, he did not know; it was the music that mattered, and sharing it with the girl he was so certain heard as well. Again, and again, he thrust hips and hand against the mirror - how desperately he wanted her! To touch, to taste! To take that damnable boy's spot upon the chaise. His erect cock, had it a voice of its own, would whimper and scream at the bleeding tension from his hiding place - _how desperately he wanted her!_

He was nearly finished now, panting hard heavy, but Raoul cried out, and his ardor was instantly soured. In an instant, Raoul's seed had polluted her, ruined her, and as their joined fluids dripped in a honey heap down her quivering thigh, Erik had to stifle a growl; he was disgusted at the sight.

In their final moments together, he watched in revulsion, in desire, in despair. He watched as his slut-girl writhed her once-virgin hips against the Vicomte's and whimpered and cried. He would kill her along with him, Erik decided; neither deserved their lives after tonight's wrongdoings against him.

He watched as she drew her pink bottom lip- the lip that should be his- between pearly white teeth in an intense concentration, and cried out once more, a final time as she reached the ecstasy that the fool boy brought her- _"Erik, Erik!"_

Erik stilled in shock and backed away from the mirror in horror, the wilting, softening member still in hand.

He choked, unable to catch breath, waiting, watching in suspense. He had heard not the name of his rival, but of his own - twice over!

Whether Raoul did not hear her cry or perhaps he just did not care, he had no reaction to the name that was not his own, and continued on in his sickly, sweet aftercare of his darling, peppering sloppy kisses along her jaw, and promising her sweet, stupid words of love in her ear. Christine's face turned from him uncomfortably, and she stared at the ceiling in disgraceful shame. The kisses and tender touches were too much, too unwanted. Her head began to swim.

"Raoul, please..." she could not meet his eyes. "I think it best for you to return home now."

It was really a blessing that he was stupid enough to accept and comply.

From his secret corridor, Erik watched as the Vicomte left, drunk and merry from his evening, and as Christine locked the door behind him. She leaned heavily against the door for a long moment, and when she turned, her Angel stood tall and imposing before her.

Instantly, her face turned red and she began to sniffle into a cry, clutching him suddenly like a lost child would her guardian. "Oh, Erik, please do not chastise me tonight! Have I not been through enough?"

"You stupid, slut-girl! I asked you to send him away, and you spread your legs for him! And what more, you cry for me!" Erik grasped her shoulders swiftly and shook her form fiercely in anger.

The poor girl, lost in a mess of tears and snot, fell to her knees in a pit of emotion. She whimpered out a sob and choked out her sad reply: "Erik, I did not want to. It is you who I love; you must believe me."

Two shy hands clung to the front of his trouser legs, wanting like a child for his graces, begging, pleading.

"Please forgive me, Angel. I did not want to." With doe-eyes closed and wet from her shamed tears, she sagged against his thigh, wanting any semblance of touch to comfort her. But he did not offer her such a kindness. Instead, he pulled away in an instant and she fell again, flatly, onto the floor in a heap of torn, wet skirts. "Erik, know that I love you!"

How could he believe her after what he had just witnessed? The second sin of seeing another, of spreading her legs, and allowing Raoul de Chagny to steal her maidenhead? Even her final cry was not enough to redeem her.

Erik turned toward the mirror, staring towards her pitiful reflection with a scowl. "You have shown tonight where your allegiance lies," His golden eyes blazed fire, "You can never love me."

She lifted her hands to her chest, placing the two over her fast-beating heart, "Let me show you!"

Erik spun, snapping his whipping cape behind himself, to stare down at her. His form was imposing, threateningly vulgar, and horrifically truculent. "Prove your love to me."

The wetness from her eyes dripped downward across the tip of her nose to pool at her philtrum and she sniffled, breathing in her own dewy tears, then looking upwards into his own eyes. Wordlessly, she plead to him, begging for redemption.

His eyes did not leave hers as he strode his way back to his position before her genuflect, nor did they move when he fingered her trembling jaw with formal, black kidskin and lifted her sweet face upwards. She gulped.

"Prove your love." He said again, this time a whisper as he released her jaw to pull at the buttons on his trouser front; her eyes widened at the realization of what he intended. She knew not struggle or fight him; she had no choice other than to surrender to him, to pay penance for her sins, to redeem herself after her damning fall from grace.

She shuttered her eyes tightly closed, though each other sense burned aflame; she heard clearly the opening click to the placket of his trousers and the strong, alkaline scent of death. Before she could reopen her eyes, she felt bony, ungloved fingers shove forcefully at her lower lip before sliding them inside.

His fingers tasted stale, salty, like the scent of mold that reeked in his cavern home. His forefinger slid between gum and cheek, then drifted to her tongue, caressing gently each pink bump and ridge before pulling out entirely.

She tried to keep her eyes closed against their scene, but blue orbs shot open when she felt a new, slick skin press against her lips.

His manhood prodded at her mouth, pushing so forcefully against her lips that she had no choice other than to open for him.

His hand gripped fiercely at the back of her scalp, ripping at the thin, flaxen hair at her nape and willing her forward and against him, forcing himself deeper into her mouth. He was thick, wet, and pulsed with an strength and urgency against her tongue, which writhed at the new and sudden feel.

A blend of wet slime- of snot, spit, and tears - puddled at the dip of her top lip and flowed downward onto the already slick meeting of mouth and cock and she gagged, pulling off and away at once; a trail of drool followed.

She turned her head and choked out a lump of spittle, tasting the warm, salty mix of their joined fluids, which only made her gag again. But before she could catch her breath, his hand felt at her jaw and pulled her forward again to kneel before his legs. His anger stemmed from passion, from betrayal, and she felt it pounding in each purple vein within his fist.

"Take me inside your mouth, open for me, my Christine." he ordered, but did not allow any time to pass before thrusting violently against her jaw, pulsing against teeth and gums until she tentatively opened for him, taking him deep within.

Her mouth enveloped his cock, sticky-wet with both saliva and seed, and she slid her tongue across the tip shyly. The angel heaved a heavy sigh. He had dreamt of her in his darkest hours, imagining the very image that was now presented to him, but each time he would wake too soon, finding himself alone and wanting in his own private chamber as the girl slept innocently just across the hall; countless times he had cursed himself and Morpheus for the resulting agonizing despair.

His hands - only one still bearing the dark opera glove - clutched again at her flaxen curls and pulled her head close, thrusting his cock now deeper into her mouth. He wished to shove the thing halfway down her pretty throat, if it were at all possible; he longed to hear her lovely voice scream against him.

Once, twice, three times more he shoved himself inside her and the slut-girl accepted him with a diffident urge to please. She kept her hands at the floor and at her waist, but shyly, along with his urging, lifted them to place atop each other on his stiff manhood. She was gentle at first, timid and anxious, but grew quickly more confident hearing his want, and slid them both along the base.

Suddenly, Erik stiffened, his entire form going rigid before her, but before she could look to see what stopped him, his thick member throbbed against her tongue before a climactic eruption of hot, sticky seed. She gagged as his emissions slid warmly against her tongue and dripped down her throat.

Christine pulled away, letting his softening manhood fall from her tongue, and then turned to spit out what she could of his seed onto the carpet. She could not possibly face him, not after what had just occurred between them, but she could hear the gentle clicking of metal against metal, signaling the end to her veneration.

Soiled and made into a whore to two men on this night, no longer a maiden, twice over. Christine knew she should feel the deep, swallowing pain of guilt, but her reconciliation absolved her fully of any shame. Still, she was too shy to face him.

Near-silence whispered through the room, the only sound being quiet shuffles of black trouser fabric and the incidental sniffles of darling Christine. Once the angel situated himself, cloth again properly situated into clean, regal dress, he pat the girl on her back, stroking against the soft silky fabric on her spine. She flinched at first, surprised with a gasp at the unfamiliar gentleness, but soon leaned into his touch.

Neither spoke, instead basking in the comfortable silence that followed his languorous release, until Erik clicked his tongue to her, then sighed once more. His breath came slow and heavy, pleasured and sated at last.

"Remember you are _mine_." He said and when she gave him a little nod, he brushed her sweet curls that had stuck with sweat to the side of her face and stroked the heap of honey-hued hair falling in tresses down her spine. His Christine had proven to him her devotion on this night, and he knew that, with each wet lick and nip to his skin, she belonged fully to him. Had he any doubts to her singular love, they were at last at ease.

He'd kill the boy in the morning just to be sure of it.

Erik raised her to her feet and fixed her dressing gown with her; both of their hands shook slightly when it came to the clasp at her breast. When she was properly clothed, he cupped her cheek with his still-gloved hand and issued a final instruction for the evening: "Come now with me, dear girl. Let your Erik take you home."

He wrapped his cloak around her form, covering from shoulder to toe in black velvet warmth and ushered her through the mirror door, the same he had stood as a voyeur behind not long ago. It would be the last spying occurrence, for he had finally won her at last.

________________________________________  
Author's Note:  
_AAAAAAHHHHH_  
This is my first one-shot, my first smut, and my first ever for POTO. I'm hoping it turned out better to you lovely readers than it did in my mind but honestly I'm tired of staring at it in my doc manager and just need to get it posted lololol. Please review, because I'd really love to hear your opinions on the content and writing style, as well as any suggestions you may have. I'm working on another that'll be out by the end of the year, so any suggestions to improve would be so appreciated!  
Thanks for reading.  
xo cotesgoat


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